Even my "fat" pants aren't fitting well. I'm currently in the lay-on-the-bed-to-button and then unable-to-breath-all-day stage. It's very sad. I'm not far enough along to justify wearing maternity clothes yet, though my comfort may demand the stretchy waist bands sooner this time.
It makes me remember (sort of fondly) my first pregnancy--where I gained very little weight in the first six months and my midwife began to worry. She shouldn't have concerned herself too much. I packed on over fifty pounds in the last three months. At one late appointment, after I had gained ten pounds in just a week, she asked "WHAT are you eating?"
"Just pasta," I replied. At this point my husband began to laugh hysterically.
"Pasta? She eats Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and a lot of it." It was true. I loved the stuff and ate nearly an entire box nearly every day. Now that I actually have kids, mac and cheese lacks that same appeal. My husband still teases me when we do have mac and cheese (not every day), "Are we having pasta for lunch?"
When my mother stepped off the plane in Boston and saw my bloated, huge expecting self, I think she nearly fainted. She told me later that she was so grateful that I went into labor and delivered the (9 lbs. 6 oz.) baby the next day, because she didn't think she could stand to look at me any longer.
Thankfully, I lost the weight quickly that time (I was much younger) and haven't gained as much during the next three pregnancies. Still, the insane weight gain and a ten pound baby haunt me. I just wish my pants still fit.